


Falling Over The Line

by awkwardgturtle



Series: Lines'verse [2]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Prostitution, hooker!AU, mentions of past suicide attempts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardgturtle/pseuds/awkwardgturtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete is Patrick's best friend, only sometimes he pays Pete for sex. Is that so wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Over The Line

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently "I could be persuaded" into a sequel means "I've already written a sequel in my head," so I wrote it down and now there's another unbeta'd hooker!AU on the loose because I'm hardcore like that.
> 
> Also I have no friends.
> 
> But mostly the hardcore thing.

A long groan escapes Patrick’s mouth as he fights not to buck his hips into the mouth wrapped around his cock. Logically, he knows Pete can – and does- take it, but he also knows that Pete performs much better without his help, pulling out all the tricks he knows will make Patrick writhe like his body is no longer under his command.

To be fair, it really isn’t. Pete has full control over him now, controlling his body with his mouth on his dick and a hand teasing his balls. Mind control via blowjobs. The thought nearly makes him laugh out loud.

Instead, he props himself on one elbow to watch Pete. He’s still dressed in his absurdly tight clothes, ass in the air and pretty mouth stretched thin over the condom he insists on using, even for this. Occupational hazards and all that. Patrick understands, and it’s not like Pete doesn’t make up for the duller sensations through skill alone.

Pete’s eyes flit up to Patrick’s face, flashing as if he takes Patrick’s sitting up as a challenge, and hey, maybe it is. For as much as he loves watching Pete go down on him, he enjoys the way he ups his game even more until Patrick’s arms go weak and he collapses back on the bed.

He cherishes every second because really, they only do this sometimes.

It was something they danced around for an entire month after they became friends. They never brought up the first time they had sex and they barely touched when they hung out beyond what was necessary. A few times, Patrick fell asleep on Pete’s shoulder, but it never breached any walls they’d put between each other. It wasn’t until Pete started to show up every couple of nights and asked meekly to use Patrick’s shower before they ordered dinner that he started to suspect something was wrong.

When asked, Pete didn’t dodge the question like Patrick suspected he would, though he did shrug his shoulders like it wasn’t a big deal. “Got my water turned off,” he said casually. “It’s been a slow month.”

Patrick knew Pete would be just stubborn enough to refuse help, but he knew he couldn’t leave his friend to suffer either, so he withdrew the money with every intention of giving it to Pete, though not quite knowing how to go about it. Sure enough, Pete’s face geared up for an explosive fight the next day when he pulled out the cash and asked “Will this cover it?”

“I don’t want your fucking donations,” Pete spat, swatting Patrick’s hand away. “I can manage fine on my own.”

 _Clearly you can’t,_ nearly escaped Patrick’s mouth, but he bit it back when an idea began to formulate. “This isn’t a donation,” he said calmly, holding the money out to Pete again who was eyeing it like it would poison him by touch. “I want whatever this can buy. If it covers your water, great, but you still have to work for it.”

Jesus, had that sounded sleazy out loud, but Pete didn’t seem to mind. He takes the money and counts it, a smile slowly widening as he does. “This is good,” he says softly when he finishes, setting the cash aside. His eyes changed suddenly, gaining an intense heat that had Patrick sweating. “I might even give a little something extra if you are, too.”

The fell back onto the couch, and after that, there was no more evading it. All it took was the tiniest prompt from Pete that maybe he wouldn’t make rent or a client cheated him out of his grocery money and suddenly Patrick was bending over backwards – sometimes quite literally – to get Pete what he needed. He liked to think that the orgasms he got from the deal made him the one in control, but the idea faded when he noticed he started keeping a couple hundred dollars in his nightstand _just in case_. Fuck. He’s glad his mother doesn’t have access to his bank account anymore because he’d hate to explain where _that_ money was going.

Still, they didn’t do it all that often. Pete seemed reluctant to ask Patrick for help, and Patrick didn’t mind Pete’s company without the promise of sex anyway. He almost preferred it actually. At least when they ordered in and flipped through Netflix Pete would lean on his shoulder or lay his head on his lap, sometimes staying the night if Patrick asked him. In bed, Pete always left right after they finished no matter how much Patrick begged and avoided touching him much more than was necessary to get him off.

That’s why, when Pete’s hand strokes gently over Patrick’s thigh, it jolts him enough to bring him back to the present where Pete’s mouth was still sliding hot and tight over his cock. Patrick’s arms wobble and give out, and Pete’s tiny noise of victory is enough to have him convulsing with his orgasm.

He stares at the ceiling as Pete disposes of the condom, then climbs on top of him, blocking his view with a toothy grin. “Need something?” Patrick asks, only half joking. Pete rarely lets Patrick finish him off, but he always feels the need to ask.

“Just the cash,” Pete says. “Can’t be giving you freebies or I’d never make my rent.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and sits up, forcing Pete to sit back on his ankles to avoid collision. “Ass. If you keep saying things like that, I might just think you’re using me for my money.”

“If I were using you for your money, I’d be charging a lot more. Trust me.”

Patrick winces internally as he reaches for the wad of bills in his nightstand. He knows that Pete doesn’t make him pay nearly as much as a normal customer does, but he isn’t sure how he feels about that. Not that he could actually afford Pete at his normal price. After all, Pete prides himself on the good quality of his work, and he’s hot enough that he’s definitely looks worth the value.

 _Speaking of those looks_ , Patrick would think as he turns back to Pete if his brain didn’t immediately shut down at the sight of him. He’s sitting quietly on Patrick’s lap, his jeans betraying that he’s still hard even though he’s biting his lip as his eyes follow the money in Patrick’s hand like he’s already doing the math in his head. His shirt is wrinkled and his bangs are matted to his forehead, but his eyeliner is still flawless around his wide and beautiful brown eyes. He looks like a dream. Before he could process what he's doing, Patrick is leaning forward to kiss him.

Pete’s mouth is softer than he imagined it would be – almost feeling totally different from the one that shot out sharp-edged smiles and scowls at every camera it encounters – and still tastes like latex. Patrick has about a half second to note this before he's tumbling back onto the bed, his chest throbbing from being shoved.

He bolts upright again, but Pete is already on his feet, his face twisted in a mixture of fury and agony. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. “Pete, I’m so sorry. I didn’t –”

“Fucking save it,” he snaps, yanking his shoes on. “You can’t— Fuck!” He tumbles to the floor in his hurry to get the other shoe on, but is immediately back on his feet and slamming the door behind him before Patrick can say anything else.

He drops his face into his hand. How could he be so fucking _stupid_? They’d been dancing this line since… well, he’d been dancing this line. Pete gave him sex, Patrick gave Pete money and it was just like every other goddamned transaction with every other goddamned client, but all the while Patrick was falling a little more in love with him every time and Pete didn’t even _know_. Pete thought he was just trying to help him make ends meet, but in reality… Fuck. Patrick was officially the worst friend in the entire universe.

 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

 

The universe was, very clearly, celebrating Patrick’s new position in it by continually shitting on him. Patrick couldn’t get three words out of Pete and… okay, that was a lie. He got exactly three words from Pete when he called him and they were a snapped “What?” when he answered and a “Fuck you” when he mentioned Pete had left without his money. The point is that Pete isn’t talking to him, Arma’s not playing at the club anymore which he just knows he’s to blame for, but every other band on the planet is, which means Patrick is spending his workdays drenched in sweat and hauling equipment until he wants to collapse.

When he takes the train, he takes the car on the opposite end from where Pete works. Sure, he wanted to see him again, but if they were to meet on the train it would no doubt turn into a screaming match and he’s not really interested in making a scene in front of Pete’s clients. In fact, he’s not interested in seeing Pete’s clients at all because he’s sure he would just end up in jail for assault, which would undoubtedly be compounded with all of the soliciting sex he’s been doing over the past few months. The last thing he wants is to get in trouble with the law or worse, get Pete in trouble with the law.

All of that combined with the fact that he still has no idea where Pete lives means that not only does he not speak to Pete weeks, but he doesn’t even see him. Patrick misses him desperately and Pete sure as hell isn’t going to be showing up on his doorstep anytime soon, so Patrick decides that if he ever wants to see him again, the best solution is to take matters into his own hands.

Only, the second time Patrick calls him, he finds his number disconnected.

 _Shit_.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

 

Pete left his number on Patrick’s counter after he left the first night. Patrick remembers it clearly, mostly because it was the first spark to their dubious friendship. The gesture made Patrick’s heart jump in his chest at the time, only to sink again when Pete answered the phone as “Jason.” It never occurred to him that Pete would give him his business number. Patrick hung up immediately.

He never called it again and he avoided Pete’s normal car on the Red Line when he rode home, telling himself that his dumb gesture was a mistake. Why would Pete be interested in being friends with Patrick anyway? Patrick, that dude that scared off a client. Patrick, that kid that worked at some club downtown. Patrick, that idiot that hired a hooker to be his friend. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

That’s why Patrick was shocked one evening – early morning, actually, but who’s counting? – when he found Pete lounging on the steps outside his apartment building, leering at a couple of giggling women as they pass him on the street. He was dressed in… well, his work clothes.

“I hope to god you’re not relocating here,” Patrick said as soon as his breath came back to him.

Pete smirked and leaned back further against the steps, his shirt riding up and revealing more sharp hipbone. “Not a chance, Lunchbox. Not enough traffic here, and definitely not the right kind of traffic either. Gotta go where the business is.”

“Then why are you here?” Patrick meant for it to sound demanding, but it came across timid and quiet.

“A client fell through,” Pete sighed, finally standing as Patrick approached the steps. “I was kinda pissed, but I was already on the train so I thought I’d drop by.” His head dipped just enough for him to look at Patrick innocently through his eyelashes. “I hope you don’t mind. I would have asked, but you never called.”

Patrick choked on his reply, and that was how he spent the night curled up on the couch, watching classic movies with a prostitute. With Pete, rather. He’d be lying is he continued to think of Pete as just “a prostitute” from then on. He just became Pete, that guy from the band that played at his work once in a while, that guy that knows all the words to “Pretty In Pink” and refuses to let anyone get on his case about it.

The sex work became secondary in their friendship, but it wouldn’t let itself by forgotten. Not when Pete showed up for movies and beer with smeared makeup and the occasional limp. Patrick couldn’t say he wasn’t bothered by it, but he bit his tongue every time. Besides, one of the  main pros of their friendship was supposed to be him not getting on Pete’s case about his side job, right? Even if it did mean choking down the bile that rose every time Pete pulled out a wad of twenties to pay for lunch.

Now Patrick would give anything to have it back, even the worst parts. He’d trade his job, his apartment, his prized guitar just for the chance to make it right with him again. He checks his phone again for missed calls, even when he never gave his number back to Pete. Still, who could blame him for wishful thinking?

 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

 

The last thing Patrick expects to see when he comes home the next day is Pete. In fact, he isn’t even sure it’s Pete at first. He’s sitting where he always used to, always on the second step from the bottom, but he’s wrapped in an oversized hoodie instead of his normal seductive attire or band shirts. The hood is pulled up to obscure his face and he’s curled up against the chilly Chicago wind. The only way Patrick even knows it’s him is, of all things, his stupid shoes. They were the same ones he tripped over when he stormed away.

“Pete?” Patrick says tentatively, approaching Pete as he’d approach a wounded alligator. “Pete, are you alright?”

No words come forth, but Patrick can see the hood move slightly when he shakes his head.

Patrick reaches down to pull Pete to his feet half expecting him to pull away, but he encounters no resistance. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

Pete leans heavily into Patrick’s side as he guides him up the stairs. He’s close enough that all Patrick has to do is glance over to see the dark rings under his eyes, traces of sleepless nights that he’s only ever heard Pete talk about. When they get inside, Patrick hauls him to the couch and sits him down before gently pushing the hood back like a fussy mother.

“Pete, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“I lost my apartment,” Pete rasps, wearing the bitter smile he only gets when talking about his exes or breakdowns. “I lost… fuck. I lost my band, I lost my job, and now I’m moved in with my parents and losing my goddamned _mind_.”

“What about…” Patrick waves vaguely, hoping Pete understands what he’s referring to. “You disconnected your number.”

“Covering my tracks,” Pete laughs joylessly. “Someone reported suspicious activity I guess because there’s been a fucking undercover cop on the Red Line for the past two weeks. I didn’t let him find anything, but I can’t go back there now.”

“But now you’re here,” Patrick points out. “What made you come back?”

“I came back because…” Pete’s eyes are trained on the carpet, shoulders slumping even further. “I got really bad like, a year ago. I was drowning and I wanted it to end, and I almost did it myself.” Pete’s voice is near a whisper as he goes on. “I promised myself I’d never get that bad again. I came back because no one else knows. I came back because I don’t know what else to do. But mostly I came back because, with all the things I’ve been losing, I don’t want to lose you too.”

Patrick twitches in his seat, debating whether to gather Pete into his arms and just hold him or if that would get him punched in the face, so instead he just opens his mouth and says the most inapposite imaginable: “Do you want some pizza or should I order Chinese?”

To his surprise, Pete relaxes at the question, the smile on his face settling into something more genuine. “Pizza’s fine. You know what I like.”

Patrick calls up their favorite place and orders the same thing as they would before this whole mess without even digging up the menu while Pete picks at the sleeves of his hoodie, nodding faintly when Patrick mentions a topping he likes. The awkwardness sets in again after he hangs up, leaving only silence between them.

After a while, Patrick squirms in his seat. “I’m really sorry.” He isn’t sure if he’s apologizing or expressing sympathy, so he lets Pete decide which he wants it to be.

“It’s not your fault I’m a wreck,” Pete responds. Sympathy it is, then. “When everything in your life goes to shit, after a while you start to realize that they only had one common flaw and it’s your fucking self.”

“No,” Patrick says, shaking his head. “No, you don’t have to blame yourself for everything. You told me yourself your band wasn’t going to last, it wasn’t you that turned you in to the CTA, and without those, who could blame you for not coming up with your rent?” Pete doesn’t look at him, so Patrick moves closer, brushing a hand over his shoulder. “And you know it was me that screwed things up between us.”

That got Pete’s attention. He raises his head to squint at Patrick. “Why did you do it?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Patrick replies, squirming a bit under his now intense gaze.

“Bullshit,” he says mildly, out of exhaustion more than lack of anger. “You know what I mean. You knew the rules. I know you knew because I _told_ you my rules, so why did you do it?”

Patrick’s coffee table suddenly seemed much more interesting that Pete’s face. “It’s just… I was only…” He curses softly and rubs a hand over his face. “I wasn’t paying you for sex, Pete. I was paying you to help you, and I wasn’t helping you for the blowjobs, I was helping you because I really, really fucking care about you and I wanted you to be happy.” When his eyes find Pete’s face again, it’s slack with… something. Shock, or perhaps amazement. “I kissed you because you looked so perfect that night and I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to be more than we were, and it was selfish. I’m sorry.”

Patrick isn’t sure what kind of reaction he was expecting, but a sudden outburst of laughter certainly wasn’t on the list. In fact, it was sort of on the opposite side of the world from the list.

“Fuck, Patrick,” Pete says, shaking his head. “You are the last person that should be apologizing. God, I’m such an idiot.” He surges forward, crowding Patrick against the arm of the couch and kisses him hard. Patrick barely has the presence of mind to kiss back before Pete pulls away grinning and nuzzling his jaw. “Didn’t think you cared that much. Thought you were just as bad as the rest of them. I’m so glad you’re not Patrick, you have no idea. It killed me to think you’d use my desperation for sex.”

“I’d never,” Patrick murmurs in assurance, tightening his arms around Pete. “Still felt like scum, though. I was still taking advantage. I’m so sorry.”

Pete takes that moment to silence Patrick with another kiss. “Shut up,” he murmurs into it. “If I don’t get to be self-depreciating, you don’t either.”

Patrick nods automatically, drawn back to Pete’s lips with a soft sigh. They stay like that for a long while, kissing and nipping and groaning under the other’s attention, waves of heat pouring off of them both. Pete grinds his hips down once and Patrick is all over it, his smooth, composed kisses quickly degenerating into humping Pete’s leg like an animal because god, he’s missed getting off with him so close.

Apparently the universe wasn’t quite done with him though, since that’s the moment the buzzer sounds.

Pete smirks infuriatingly above him. “That’d be the pizza,” he says, showing absolutely no intention of answering it.

“I hate you,” Patrick returns, rolling out from under him and ringing the pizza man up, all the while praying his hard-on isn’t too obviously pressing against his zipper. It’s clearly too much to ask for, since it’s all the pizza man looks at while he accepts the food.

Patrick lays out the pizza on the coffee table, scowling at Pete’s giggling. “Not funny, you ass. I was hard and he saw.”

“No he didn’t,” Pete says around the slice he’s shoveling into his mouth. “If he saw, he totally would have been on his knees blowing you in seconds.” Patrick chokes on his piece as Pete leans in to kiss his ear. “I know I would have.”

The sultry tone has Patrick throwing his slice back into the box and pulling Pete back in for a bruising kiss. “Fuck you and fuck this pizza,” he growls, tugging at Pete’s clothes.

“Yeah, fuck me,” Pete encourages breathlessly, tugging Patrick’s shirt over his head with minimal resistance. “You gonna fuck me like the last time we were on this couch?” he teases as he works them out of the rest of their clothes and Patrick digs around for the lube. “You gonna let me ride you ‘til the sun comes up? ‘Cause I really fucking want it.”

Patrick can’t help his moan as he recalls Pete bouncing on his lap, eyes closed and mouth open, the morning light streaming through the windows at Pete’s back, illuminating him like the most licentious angel. With some effort, he shakes his head, shoving the lube at Pete. “No. Want you to fuck me.”

The words surprise Pete enough that he fumbles the lube, dropping it on Patrick’s stomach. “Shit,” he breathes as he recovers the bottle, slowly dragging his fingers through the little bit that trickled out. “Jesus, I… Fuck yeah.” He wastes no more time in slicking up his fingers and slipping them between Patrick’s thighs.

Pete’s gentler with his fingers than Patrick expects. He tests his angles before he pushes in, biting his lip like he’s concentrating on something really important and periodically glancing up at Patrick for any signs of discomfort. It strikes Patrick that he’s never really seen Pete this way, touching him outside the context of the blank professionalism he’d always carried before. His stomach flutters with the prospect of learning Pete again, getting to find all of his little quirks and kinks and hot buttons. Making love for real. Each tiny touch relaxes Patrick enough that he barely notices when Pete’s finished until he’s leaning into Patrick’s space.

“You ready? Please say you are.”

Patrick nods hard and Pete disappears again, tearing open a condom. “Gonna get tested,” he murmurs as he rolls it on, “then I’m going to quit my whole street gig just so I can fuck you without this.” Patrick really thinks he should be turned off by the mention of STI tests in bed, but the idea of being the only one getting to fuck Pete is enough to justify the long moan when he finally slides in. “You want that? Bet you’d writhe all pretty for me like you do when I go down on you. Can’t wait for you to come in my mouth.”

“God, will you ever shut up and just fuck me?” Patrick groans, grinding his hips onto Pete’s cock to punctuate his point.

Pete laughs as he begins to roll his hips deliberately. “Nah, I just think you’re adorable when you’re sexually frustrated.”

Patrick starts to say “Fuck you,” but it falls off into another moan as Pete’s cock grazes his prostate. “Come on, like that.”

They fall into a rhythm somewhere just south of the frantic rutting they were accustomed to, taking their time to map out each other with their fingers. It’s only when Pete’s hand finds its way around Patrick’s cock that they work to get off in earnest, Patrick’s leg wrapping around Pete as he thrusts in deeper and harder, each time dragging more solidly across his prostate.

“Please,” Patrick pants, tasting the salt of his own sweat as he begs. “Please, please, Pete!”

“Yeah,” Pete grunts and gives Patrick exactly what he needs, twisting his hand along Patrick’s shaft, then leaning in to kiss him hard.

Patrick comes the moment their mouths meet, whimpering against Pete’s lips when he pulls out.

“No, no, don’t,” he begs, trying to pull Pete back in. “Let me get you off. Come in me.”

Pete chokes and lets himself be pulled, only lasting a few more strokes before Patrick feels him spill into the condom. “God, Patrick,” he breathes when he pulls back out to dispose of the condom. “Do you have any idea how you look when you…” He lets the sentence drop off as he buries his face into Patrick’s neck.

“I have an idea,” Patrick replies, holding Pete where he is, just to feel him breathe.

After a moment, though, Pete starts to squirm. “Patrick?”

“Mmm?”

“I want the rest of my pizza.”

Patrick snorts and releases him. “Needy little shit,” he jests, though his stomach rumbles as well. “You can have some now as long as you hold me after.”

Pete grins brightly as he reaches for his food. “I will.”

And, true to his word, he does.


End file.
